


Take My Arms That I Might Reach You

by loveadventures



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveadventures/pseuds/loveadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally decides to confess his love for Sherlock, but doesn't get the response he had hoped for. He tries to move on but little hints here and there make him think that there may be hope for him yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Arms That I Might Reach You

John paced the floor, nervous about the decision he’d just made when he heard the doorknob turn. Sherlock marched into the room and promptly sat down, obviously thinking about something.  
“Well, get on with it.” he said, not looking up from his gaze on the far wall.  
“Get on with what?”  
“You’re nervous. You’re sweating. You must have made some decision while I was gone and now need to act on it, but by your bothersome pacing it is obvious that you aren’t going to leave this room without discussing it with me first.” He turned to look at John. “Who is she?”  
“What? Who?”  
“You don’t get nervous about anything but relationships. You’re going to take a big step…maybe you’re going to tell her you love her. You’re pretty steady so I can see that you truly mean it. You love her.”  
“You’re wrong.”  
“I’m never wrong. The sweating and obvious nerves come from the fear that she doesn’t feel the same way about you. Take the risk, John, best get it over with.” Sherlock got up and walked into the kitchen.  
“There is no lady, Sherlock.” John called in.  
“It’s a man, then? Well, good for you John. Go out and explore the world.” Sherlock began rummaging into the fridge looking for god knows what. “Anyway, I’m trying to decide whether or not to take this case. And my brother has been accosting me all week and— ”  
“—Sherlock.”  
“—I don’t know what he’s after right now but I—”  
“—Sherlock!”  
Sherlock paused and poked his head over the top of the refrigerator door. He raised his eyebrows.  
“What, John?”  
“It’s you.”  
“What?”  
“I’m in love with you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sherlock closed the fridge with one egg in his hand and got a pot out of the cupboard. He filled it with warm water and put it on the stove.  
“Sherlock.” John couldn’t stop staring at him. How could he be boiling an egg casually after what he just confessed to him?  
“John.” He turned the burner on.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Boiling an egg.”  
“Why?”  
“I’m hungry.”  
“For one egg?”  
“Did you want one?”  
“Well no…”  
“Then yes, one egg.”  
“Did you hear me?”  
“Yes, you said you didn’t want one.”  
“No, earlier.”  
“You asked what I was doing very well knowing the answer.”  
John rubbed the sweat off his brow and sat down on the couch.  
“I’m in love with you.” He repeated, almost angrily.  
“Yes, you mentioned that.”  
“And you don’t have any response to that?”  
“…no.”  
Of course he didn’t. He didn’t even have the capacity to have friends, how could he possibly…John sighed. “I’m off to my room.”  
“Your laptop is in here.” Sherlock entered the room and sat across from John.  
“I don’t need it.”  
“Are you sleeping?”  
“No. I want to be alone.”  
“Your face is red.”  
“I’m embarrassed.”  
“I gathered that.”  
“Of course you did.” John started up the stairs.  
“John.” He stopped, sighing painfully.  
“Yes, Sherlock?”  
“You have no reason to be embarrassed.”  
“Mr. Holmes, you are a genius, but you really aren’t great with these kinds of things.”  
“I resent that.”  
“It’s true!” he called downstairs as he continued to his room.  
“Well this is not really my area.” Sherlock picked up the paper. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Walking into 221b from the grocery store the next day, John ran into Mrs. Hudson.  
“Hello, John!”  
“Mrs. Hudson, how are you?”  
“I’m fine John, how are you?”  
“Oh, just fine.” Mrs. Hudson stopped and looked at John.  
“John.” She had a knowing look in her eyes. “You can talk to me. I know it must be hard to get things off your chest living with someone like Sherlock.”  
“Really, Mrs. Hudson, I’m fine. Just a little heart ache.”  
“There’s no such thing as a little heart ache. Sit down.” He did. “Who is she?”  
“Who?”  
“The lady who broke your heart?”  
“Oh. Well…I thought…she…was the one. I still think she is.” John felt odd using female pronouns, but he couldn’t tell Mrs. Hudson the truth.  
“What happened?”  
“I told her I was in love with her and she sort of denied me.”  
“Sort of?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“John,” said Mrs. Hudson, getting up from her chair and moving towards the door, “Don’t tell him I told you this, but I want you to go into his room and look under his pillow.”  
“I’m sorry, who?”  
“Or should I say ‘her’?” Mrs. Hudson winked as she left John alone with his thoughts.  
As soon as he was alone, John ran to Sherlock’s room. He could be home any minute. He took Sherlock’s pillow and carefully lifted it off the bed. Underneath was a jumper. That’s it? John thought. That’s what she wanted me to see? A jumper? John picked up the jumper to look at it. It looked familiar. John remembered having a jumper like this one but he lost it a couple of months ago—  
“Oh my god...” He couldn’t help saying out loud. Sherlock stole his jumper. What the hell does he need with it? He’s always in coats and scarves… John started getting really angry when he heard a voice behind him.  
“You were never very covert, were you?” Sherlock stood in the doorway.  
“You stole my jumper.”  
“You don’t wear it anymore.”  
“Because you stole it!”  
“It doesn’t suit you.”  
“But it suits you?”  
“It suits my purposes.”  
“And what are your purposes?”  
Sherlock took off his scarf, revealing those glorious cheekbones. He said nothing.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Pass.”  
“Sherlock!”  
“John, did you have a chance to go to the supermarket?”  
John threw down the jumper and walked back to the front door where he had carelessly left the groceries, but found that Sherlock had already picked them up and brought them into the kitchen. When he got back to Sherlock’s room to continue the argument, the man had once again vanished. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Angry and hurt, John went straight to his laptop to blog about his roommate’s carelessness. The Jumper Thief, he called it, writing about the selfish Sherlock Holmes and his adventures in taking other people’s things without asking or thinking of them in the slightest.  
An hour later Sherlock reentered 221b. He silently took off his scarf, coat, and gloves and walked into his room.  
“Hello” John called into the room, looking up from his book. Sherlock did not respond. “You’re ignoring me now as well?”  
“Don’t be childish, John.” Sherlock stood at the doorway of his room. “I’m trying to think.”  
“About?”  
“About ways to steal the rest of your clothes.” Sherlock quipped.  
“What?”  
“The case. I’m thinking about the case, you idiot.”  
“So you decided to take it on?”  
“Yes, isn’t that obvious by my trying to think about it?” Sherlock was obviously angry. John left the room and walked outside to get some fresh air. Halfway through the walk he ran into Mrs. Hudson.  
“John!” she called, handing him a bag. “Be a dear and help me carry these inside.”  
“Of course.” An odd silence fell between them as they walked towards the apartment.  
“I read your blog,” she said finally.  
“Oh…right. Well, thanks for the heads up on that.” He said, walking a little more briskly. Mrs. Hudson stopped him.  
“John. I didn’t tell you about the jumper to make you angry. In fact, I meant just the opposite.”  
“How could I not be angry?”  
“I know, I know, he already has your heart, how could he take your jumper as well?”  
John looked down, embarrassed.  
“John, you’re not really angry about the jumper. It was just an excuse to lash out on him.”  
“So that’s why you told me about it? So I would lash out?”  
“Not at all, I thought you’d be flattered.”  
“Oh, yes, flattered! Sherlock likes my taste in jumpers! Brilliant!”  
Mrs. Hudson stared at John, trying to read him.  
“John…he didn’t take your jumper because he likes the style…he took it because it’s yours.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Months ago I found a single stocking of yours in his room and threw it out, thinking the other was missing. Sherlock found me later that day and angrily asked me where it was. I told him it was gone and he got very upset. I thought he was using it for one of his experiments. One day I went to check on the two of you when I found him going for a bit of a kip in his bed, your jumper huddled like a baby in his arms as he slept. The next day, there it was. Nicely tucked under his pillow. He can’t sleep without it…he can’t sleep without a piece of you beside him.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A week later, Sherlock bolted out of his room and grabbed John by the arm.  
“Follow me.” He said, galloping out the door.  
“What is it this time?”  
“I know where the murderer is. I know who he is.”  
Soon they found themselves in a local bakery. The store was dead except for a young man and an older man, cleaning up.  
Once the younger man became privy to Sherlock’s presence, he immediately began to run. John ran to tackle the man, but was tackled by his coworker and thrown to the floor. Sherlock ran outside, but that was the last that John could remember before he blacked out.  
When John woke up, he found himself in Sherlock’s bed, tucked in with a cuppa and hot water bottle on the table beside him. He smiled at Sherlock’s attempt to make tea. It was a simple task, but it meant a lot to John. He looked out the door. No Sherlock to be seen. John turned around in his bed but hit a wall. Sherlock was curled up beside him, on top of the covers, still in his coat, scarf and boots.  
It was rare that John saw Sherlock asleep. It was the first time John had ever seen him look vulnerable. John smiled and curled up next to his friend, taking in the warmth of his body.  
“mmm…John?” Sherlock turned around and opened his eyes. Suddenly he realized the situation and shot up, fixing the covers on the bed. “How are you feeling? How is your head?” Sherlock was trying to be serious, but his hair was rummaged in such a way that looking serious was not possible. John giggled.  
“No giggling.” Sherlock said, smiling.  
“My head feels ok. It’s my back that’s in pain.”  
“Let me see.”  
“What?”  
“I want to see if it looks ok.”  
John hesitated, but took off his jumper and shirt and let Sherlock put his hands on his back. Sherlock took off his jacket, crawled onto the bed, turned John to face the wall and stared at his friend.  
“What is it?” John asked.  
“Nothing, I don’t see a problem…” he ran his warm hands over John’s back. “I don’t feel any problems…”  
“And you’re an expert?”  
“I studied massage for a little bit.”  
“Oh?”  
“And a little chiropractics.” Sherlock pressed his fingers into John’s back and around his waist to his stomach.  
“What are you doing now?”  
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and laid his head on John’s shoulder. “It’s called a hug, John.”  
“Since when do you give hugs?”  
“I don’t.”  
“You don’t?”  
Sherlock squeezed a bit tighter.  
“Hardly ever.” Sherlock turned his face towards John and smiled, nudging his cheek with his nose and sliding away, rolling off the bed and walking out of the room.  
John laughed. It’s all he could do to keep from squealing with glee.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning John was still in pain. Physically. Mentally he was still floating over the way Sherlock took care of him when he was hurt. He must care at least a little bit…John thought. He has to.  
But Sherlock was in his own world. The case was solved, the killer caught, and Sherlock was getting antsy again. He was bored and had too much energy.  
“How are you feeling, John?” he asked. John was taken aback at the initiation of a conversation about his feelings.  
“Fine, thanks.” He replied, sitting in his favourite spot on the couch. It made him happy that Sherlock was concerned, although he was never quite aware of all his motives.  
“When did you wake?”  
“Seven…then again at eight…then,” he checked his watch, “I suppose about ten minutes ago, so a quarter past nine.”  
“Something keeping you up?” Sherlock peeped his eyes over the top of John’s laptop just for a moment before returning to whatever was on the screen.  
“Just some minor pain, is all.” John slid a hand down the back of his shirt. The coolness of his hand felt soothing on his back pain.  
Suddenly Sherlock stood and bustled into the kitchen, fiddling over some dishes until reappearing with a plate with eggs, toast, and jam and placed it in front of John.  
“Hungry?” he said, giving a small grin and eyebrow raise. John was baffled. Sherlock had never done anything this nice for him before. He looked at the toast, ridiculously delicious looking jam, and eggs and suddenly he felt awful. A dull, pressing pain entered his stomach.  
“Actually, I— ” but he couldn’t finish his sentence before rushing to the toilet to vomit.  
“Everything all right, John?” Sherlock called from the other room. Another hurl from John. John’s head was spinning, his stomach churning. He rested his head on the cool porcelain of the toilet, spewing his guts out. Sherlock rushed to the doorway.  
“Here,” he said, handing him a glass of water and squatting beside him. “Take small sips, otherwise you’ll just be more sick.”  
“I’m sorry, but who’s the doctor he—” another hurl from John. He closed his eyes and wiped his face with his hands. Suddenly he felt cool pressure on his back. Sherlock was pressing a wet towel onto John’s neck and back.  
“Ooh…” John groaned his legs sliding to his side, curling in a ball on the floor. His head was turning and his stomach felt inhabited by a small alien. Sherlock put the towel on John’s head and walked out of the room.  
John heard the click of his laptop keys before getting up again to vomit, then pass out on the floor. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Later that night, John woke up on the couch and found Mrs. Hudson cleaning the toilet.  
“Mrs. Hudson?”  
“I’m not your housekeeper, you know,” she said, “though I do hope you are feeling better, John.”  
“I know, Mrs. Hudson, and I am sorry. Where is Sherlock?”  
“How should I know? He left the flat a while ago and told me to check up on you.”  
“Did he?” John smiled. Sure, Sherlock left him hacking on the floor, but at least he cared enough to send Mrs. Hudson after him. And for Sherlock, that was more than expected.  
Mrs. Hudson went into the kitchen to take the kettle off the stove.  
“How are you two? Have things gotten better since…well…since we last chatted?”  
John let out his feelings in a long sigh.  
“I’m hopeful, Mrs. Hudson.”  
“Keep that chin up, John.” She said, pouring John a cuppa. “What is this tea? I haven’t seen it before…”  
“Hmm?”  
“It’s in a little bag…at first I thought it was some sort of drugs, you know Sherlock, who knows what’s going on in that head of his, sometimes I just can’t stand to—”  
“The tea, Mrs. Hudson?”  
“Yes, I’m sorry. What was I saying? Oh, right. I thought it was drugs, but on closer examination it looks and smells like some sort of tea.”  
“Let me see.” Mrs. Hudson brought the bag over to John, who brought it to his nose. “Yeah, this is the tea Sherlock gave me last night…it was awful, but the gesture was nice.”  
“I’ll see what else I can find for you, dear.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next day, John got a text from Sarah. Haven’t talked in a while, want to get coffee?  
He didn’t reply. John wasn’t usually one to turn down the affections of a woman, but he didn’t want to risk Sherlock judging him for such an idle waste of time, or worse, think that he’s not interested in him. Sarah was a nice girl, but nothing could compare to the raw magnetism he had for Sherlock.  
Sherlock was once again, enthralled with whatever he was reading on John’s computer, and there was nothing John could do to pull his attention away. He knew better than that.  
He picked up the newspaper and immediately froze at the headline. London’s Own Sherlock Holmes Does It Again: Serial Murderer Caught.  
“You didn’t tell me you were working on another case.”  
“You were unwell. No need to bring it up.” Sherlock didn’t even look up from the computer.  
“When did you solve this, yesterday?” No answer. John started to read the article:  
“Granger was posing as a housekeeper to get into victim’s homes. He would then somehow make the victims nauseous and faint, making his move while they were preoccupied with vomiting all over their freshly cleaned houses. Upon investigation, Mr. Holmes found the cause of noxiousness to be a special blend of tea made by Granger that makes one vomit once passed through their system, and was able to identify him through the rare leaves used in the mix.”  
John was livid. Sherlock was not trying his best to make him feel better; he was using him as a guinea pig for yet another case. Just when John thought that maybe, maybe Sherlock cared enough about him to make him feel better after blacking out in order to help his case…  
“Kick me when I’m down, why don’t you?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Thanks for filling me in on your little experiment.”  
“I knew you’d figure it out, John. You’re not as dumb as you look.”  
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”  
Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. “Yes. It was.”  
John stormed out of the room. He wanted to cry or scream or punch something. Everything he thought about his relationship with Sherlock was a lie. Did he even care at all that John was hurt? What if John didn’t wake up? Would he care then? Of course he would care…John thought…then he couldn’t continue to use me for his experiments…  
John grabbed his coat from his room and stormed down the stairs out the front door. He grabbed his mobile from his pocket and sent Sarah a text back:  
I would love to. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The weeks went by and John met Sarah several times for coffee, dinner, and chats. As nice and pretty as Sarah was, though, he couldn’t keep his mind off of Sherlock. Why did he have to be so attracted to him? Why did Sherlock have to be so indifferent? How could anyone stand being in love with a sociopath?  
“Something on your mind?” Sarah asked one day.  
“No, nope, just you.” John smiled, a little too eagerly.  
“John.” Sarah raised her eyebrows. John sighed.  
“I guess I just haven’t been feeling well lately.”  
“What’s going on?” John didn’t know where to start, or if he should even start at all.  
“Well, I guess I haven’t been feeling myself ever since I blacked out a few weeks ago…and the nausea certainly didn’t help…”  
“Hell, that’s no fun…I’m assuming Sherlock had something to do with this?”  
“Sherlock had everything to do with this.”  
“I don’t think he’s very good for you…”  
“Neither does he…” John mumbled.  
“Sorry?”  
“I said, neither do I,” John took another sip of coffee.  
“Do you ever think of moving away from Baker Street?” John choked on his coffee.  
“I’m sorry? Move away from Baker Street?”  
“I just don’t think it’s healthy for you to be living there.”  
“Healthy? It’s just a flat! It doesn’t control my health.”  
“John, you know what I mean…I could help you find a place if you want.”  
“No, I think I’ll manage thanks.” John spat, bustling out of the café. How could she suggest such a thing? She didn’t know his life at all. Sherlock had done more good than harm for him…hadn’t he?  
John didn’t know what to think anymore. Maybe she was right. Was it worth the physical and emotional struggle it took living with Sherlock? Yes, John thought, yes, because even if I do have to go through the crazy bullshit that goes along with Sherlock, I know that he needs me, and that gives my life meaning.  
Watson stopped to sit on a park bench and rub his hands through his hair, trying to make sense of all of the thoughts that had been entering his head when a familiar black car pulled up in front of him. The window rolled down and a woman’s voice called out.  
“Get in.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“How are you?” Mycroft poured himself a cup of tea.  
“Fine.” John was lost as to what Mycroft could want. It seemed like a pretty uneventful time for him to need anything.  
“And Sherlock?”  
“Just as cheery as ever.”  
“John. I’m serious. How is he?”  
“Fine, I guess.” John tried to think of the last conversation he had with Sherlock. He hadn’t seen him much since the newspaper incident. “Why? Is he not responding to your texts?”  
“Actually,” Mycroft looked down at his phone. “He has. That’s what’s worrying me.”  
“I’m sure you two can work out whatever issues he has…” John stood up to leave, sick of having to take care of a man who would never care back.  
“John, wait.” Mycroft stood, “I’m worried about him. The things he has been texting me are unlike him. He’s always been such a solitary person, but lately…” his voice trailed off.  
“I can’t be around to nanny him all the time.”  
“Well, I can’t tell you what to do. But if you care about him, please, John…if anyone can get through to him, it’s you.”  
John rolled his eyes but said nothing as he walked out of the building. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

If this were anyone else, anyone else, John would have been long gone by now. He was unwillingly used as a pawn in a crime experiment, constantly verbally abused, and expected to take care of the man responsible for it all. But this wasn’t just any man; it was his best friend, his Sherlock.  
“Sherlock…” John sighed, shutting the door to the car and walking back up to 221B. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and one of the bravest men John ever knew. As frustrated as John got with his antics, he knew one look into his deep, celestial eyes and he would go weak at the knees again. He craved even the smallest smile from the man, and, although rarely, when he got one, it would send sinful shivers down to his core.  
When he got into the flat, Sherlock was looking at something through a microscope.  
“How’s my brother?” he asked.  
“Nothing slips past you.”  
“Oh, please, John, I saw his car drive away.”  
“I see we’re in a cheerful mood today.”  
“Fine. Don’t tell me.”  
“It’s nothing new. He’s just worried about you.”  
“Naturally.”  
John picked up the newspaper on the table, reading the headlines, checking for any surprise cases Sherlock had neglected to mention.  
“He doesn’t want me to leave you.”  
Sherlock looked up from whatever he had been observing. “Ever?”  
“Seems like.”  
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t need you.” A sharp pain started in John’s stomach and traveled up his spine.  
“I told him I’m not your nanny.”  
“Hardly. I mean if anyone’s the nanny in this set up, it’s me.” John’s stomach continued to toss.  
“What?”  
“Come on, John, who was cleaning up your vomit weeks ago?”  
“Mrs. Hudson, actually, no thanks to you.”  
“Well, I’m not a housekeeper.”  
“Neither is she!”  
“Who made you tea and let you sleep in my bed when you were hurt?”  
“You gave me the tea in order to drug me!”  
“That is beside the point.”  
“No, Sherlock,” John couldn’t take this unrequited nightmare anymore. “That is exactly the point!” He stormed into his room and started angrily throwing everything he could reach into a nearby suitcase.  
“What are you doing?” Sherlock closely followed, staring at his flat mate.  
“Packing.”  
“For what?”  
“I’m moving.” Sherlock laughed.  
“Oh? Where to?”  
“Sarah’s apartment. She said she would help me find a place.” Sherlock’s face went pale.  
John was so angry he didn’t even bother to text Sarah, knowing she would only make a snarky comment about being right. Once he got everything in the suitcase, he walked past Sherlock and down the stairs headed for the door.  
“John, wait!” Sherlock ran after him. As John turned around, Sherlock pinned him to the door, holding his arms down, debilitating him.  
“Let me go.” John’s expression was steady and cold.  
“No, John, listen to me.” There was desperation in Sherlock’s voice. “I lied.”  
“What else is new?”  
“I do need you.” John sighed at this attempt to soften him.  
“Sherlock, I love you, but I don’t want to be your guinea pig any more. I want to mean something to somebody. I need to be more than just another lab instrument.”  
“John,” Sherlock’s grip loosened around the doctor’s arms. “I care about you.”  
“What?”  
“I’m sorry.” He let go of John completely. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” John was speechless. The extents this man took in order to keep him around…  
“Sherlock, you don’t need to do this,” he sighed, upset at the excess of lies already dealt by the man, “I’ve made up my mind, no bullshit about how much you care is going to make me stay.”  
“Remember that night you told me you loved me?” Sherlock kept a steady gaze on Watson. “I didn’t respond because I thought you knew.”  
“What the hell are you talking about?”  
“You’re not as clever as I gave you credit for.”  
“That’s enough, Sherlock, I’m going.” John opened the door and walked outside.  
“No, please!” Sherlock grabbed his arm, pulling the man back into the flat and shutting the door. He pinned him to the wall, his hands around John’s wrists; his face inches from John’s face. “I didn’t respond because I thought it was obvious…I love you too.”  
“Sherlock…” John didn’t know what to believe anymore.  
“Did you think I wouldn’t know that tea would make you sick? I knew you would follow me that night to confront the killer, your back was hurt, I needed to keep you safe.” John didn’t know what to say.  
“I would’ve managed.” He smiled.  
“I need you.” Sherlock said, his hands sliding up John’s arms, around his neck and through his hair. “I love you.”  
“I love you too.”  
Sherlock leaned into his flat-mate, eliminating the space between their lips. Sherlock’s lips felt warm and gentle around John’s, his tongue tenderly tracing John’s as he moved his hands from his hair down to his chest. John pushed into Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist and indulging in the warmth of his body that pushed so powerfully against his.  
Suddenly the door opened, and the two retreated a bit.  
“Hello boys.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, dropping off a couple bags of groceries she picked up for them. More softly she added, “What did I tell you, John? He’ll always need a piece of you beside him.”  
“Always.” Sherlock repeated, his eyes never leaving John’s.

The End.


End file.
